Cet Amour Est Traitre
by DiaryOfAFangirl13
Summary: Takes place after the events of season 3 episode 24, 'The Divine Move'. Original plot ideas. This is my first fic so please comment/review so I can improve my story! All characters owned by MTV. Just had to borrow them for a while!


1: Lydia.

_A sword._

_A gasp._

_Then; blood._

_Warm, crimson blood, tricking softly from the wound inflicted upon Allison's chest. The Oni's blade had 'been thrust through her so forcefully that it had penetrated her ribcage, then her heart.' Or so the coroner had written on his official report. Of course, Lydia had already known when she felt the impact that Allison was beyond help, unreachable, irreversibly injured. But that fact didn't prevent the overwhelming feelings of guilt she had been experiencing for the past three days from resurfacing, smothering her like a tidal wave. _

_Scott had been there. He had held his first love's hand and told her what he himself wanted to believe; that she would be okay, he'd save her. All the while Lydia screamed Allison's name, screamed and cried and clung to an unconscious Stiles for dear life in that damned cellar. If only she had found a way out, she could have come to Allison's aid, done something._ _**Anything.**_

Lydia sat on the carpeted floor of her bedroom; head slumped against the hard wood of her ebony vanity table. This was _her_ room, and hers alone, yet it felt vacant. _She _felt vacant. As if she was missing a piece of herself. Her soul had been shattered into a thousand pieces. She couldn't look around her room without seeing traces of Allison everywhere. One of her best friend's French books stood on Lydia's nightstand. A purple hairbrush which had been used as a microphone for an impromptu concert in front of Lydia's full-length mirror lay on the floor across the room, thick dark hair entwined between bristles. And hanging on the door of Lydia's wardrobe; Allison's jacket.

Lydia struggled to her feet, using the vanity as a support. When she caught her reflection in the mirror, she stared blankly at the girl who stood before her. Her green eyes were bloodshot, deep in their sockets, bordered by dark circles. She looked terrible, but that was to be expected. She hadn't showered or left her bedroom for three days and the only human contact she'd had occurred twice a day when her mother brought Lydia her meals. She had turned them down each time, unable to summon an appetite.

Lydia made her way across the cluttered floor, careful not to step on anything sharp or trip over the wall of laundry she had constructed in the centre of her bedroom. Once she reached the closet door, she raised her arm, let her fingers edge toward the jacket. She was about to release the thing from the hook it hang on when she hesitated, pale hand hovering in mid-air. She suddenly felt as if it would be erroneous to touch something that had been so close to Allison; her favourite jacket. The jacket she had worn on their group date to the Beacon Hills Ice Rink. Well, it hadn't been a group date, really. It had been Scott and Allison, and their two best friends along for the ride. Stiles had fawned over Lydia all night, as he always did. He had watched her as she danced across the white ice like a figure-skater, she'd felt his pulse quicken as she grabbed his wrist to pull him along, and he'd held her when she'd collapsed onto the hard glass of the rink.

What Lydia wouldn't give to have Stiles here right now. She hadn't spoken to him since he'd dropped her home the night it all ended, the night she'd lost another person she'd cared for…

Aiden.

Lydia let her arm fall to her side, and burst into tears. She had forgotten momentarily that she had lost him, too. Aiden had been her boyfriend of sorts, and even though she hadn't loved him, she still cared for him deeply. When she closed her eyes she could see him lying on the cold ground, bearing a similar wound to Allison's, surrounded by his new pack; she saw Ethan on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching his twin's jacket, willing him back to life. She saw Derek looking visibly upset, kneeling next to Ethan, one large hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. And Allison's father, Chris Argent, standing above them, a look of pity on his lined face.

She had run straight into Stiles' arms. And he'd held onto her for longer than she could remember. She felt safe with him, crazy as it sounded. They were emotionally tethered to each other in a way that even she, Lydia _freakin_' Martin, couldn't understand. There was no logic to it.

But then, nothing in Beacon Hills ever made sense anyway.

Lydia reached again for the jacket, felt the velvety texture of it on her fingertips. Slowly, she bent her head to meet it. She almost choked when she inhaled Allison's scent. The tears were coming thick and fast now, cascading down her cheeks and onto the jacket. Allison's perfume. Lydia had bought it as an early Christmas present, and she'd loved it, promising to wear it every day. She wouldn't have use for it anymore, Lydia realised. She was gone. And Lydia had to get ready.

…

One hour later, Lydia stood again before her mirror. Her eyes were still bloodshot, deep in her sockets, but concealer covered the dark circles well enough. She had curled her long red hair, and applied her signature 'Crimson Kiss' lipstick. She wore a short black dress, and black Louboutin heels graced her feet. She grabbed her iPhone, stuffed it in her purse, and was halfway to the door when she remembered the jacket. Slowly, she shrugged the thing onto her shoulders. It was time, she thought to herself. Time to say goodbye.


End file.
